He thrusts up to meet me, hands roaming, pushing my body to his face, mouth to my breasts, teeth grazing my nipples. I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, the room spinning.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Use me. Take what you need.”
I do, riding him hard, his filthy words pushing me higher, closer. When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, body convulsing around him.
After I collapse against his chest, boneless and breathless, he rolls us, pinning me beneath him with a wicked glint in his eyes.
“My turn,” he murmurs, nipping at my throat. “On your knees. Now.”
The command sends a jolt through me. I obey, crawling to hands and knees at the edge of the bed, heart racing with anticipation.
He kneels behind me, one hand firm on the back of my neck, the other running down my spine, possessive, lingering at the curve of my ass. “God, look at you,” he groans, palm coming down in a teasing slap. “You’re dripping for me. Did riding my face get you off that hard?”
I whimper, pushing back against him, aching for more. He tugs at my hair, forcing me to arch.
“I want you to remember this every time you even think about that gondola,” he growls, lining himself up. “That this is what you missed then.”
He slides his cock through my slick folds, teasing me until I’m trembling.
“Please,” I gasp, desperate.
“That’s right. Beg for it.”
“Please, I need you. I need you to fuck me. Hard.”
He rewards me, thrusting in all at once, filling me to the hilt. I cry out, clutching at the sheets. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against me, his grip on my hips firmly sinking into my flesh.
“You’re mine right now, Zlata. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I moan, voice ragged.
He leans over me, one hand fisted in my hair, the other slipping between my legs to rub tight, ruthless circles on my clit. “Come for me like this. Show me you can take it once more.”
The rough pace, the hand in my hair, the filthy words—I unravel, coming hard around him, legs shaking, vision goingwhite. He groans, slams into me even deeper, riding out my orgasm.
“Good girl,” he pants, voice thick with pride and hunger.
He fucks me through the aftershocks, chasing his own release now, breathing harsh against my back.
I push back, giving him everything, and when he finally comes—deep, hard, shaking—he collapses over me, mouth hot against my shoulder, still holding me tight.
He eases out of me gently, his grip loosening, then pulls me back into his arms. We’re both spent, still trembling, skin damp and hot where it touches. I tuck myself against his chest, ear over his heartbeat, trying to slow my breathing to match his.
The weirdness hits in the quiet. Not the sex—that felt brutally, gloriously right. This. Him stroking his fingers through my hair, my body instinctively leaning closer like it belongs here. Like I’m allowed to have this, not just steal it for a night. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want the moment where reality kicks down the door and reminds me who he is, who I am.
“I’ve never come more than once before,” I say into the silence. It comes out lighter than I feel. Praise. Safe territory. Men like knowing they were good, right?
His fingertip traces a slow line down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Then your ex was not very good,” he says after a moment. “Because you weren’t exactly hard to please.”
“Perhaps you just know what you’re doing,” I say, smiling against his chest.
The smile wobbles. The urge to undercut it, to shrug off the compliment before it can be taken away, rises like muscle memory.
My mouth moves before my better judgment catches up. “Well. You’ve had plenty of fan girls to practice on, right?”
His finger stops midway to my lower back.
There’s a pause, long enough for my stomach to drop. Then, calmly, “I don’t like that self-destructive talk of yours,” he says. “But I like it even less when you drag me into it.”
